


the tenderest touch

by takingoffmyshoes



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Multi, OT3, Polyamory, Sharing a Bed, team shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-15
Updated: 2017-12-15
Packaged: 2019-02-15 04:47:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13023546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/takingoffmyshoes/pseuds/takingoffmyshoes
Summary: the trio in the evenings, in the mornings, and in the hours in between





	the tenderest touch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [InNovaFertAnimus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InNovaFertAnimus/gifts).



> _the tenderest touch leaves the darkest of marks, and the kindest of kisses break the hardest of hearts (Florence + The Machine,_ The Hardest of Hearts)
> 
> This has absolutely no sort of chronological order, so each section can be viewed as an individual one-shot or snippet. They all go together though, so even if a section focuses on a particular pair’s relationship, the overall dynamic is still OT3.

0304.

They’re not lovers, but only in the sense that they both refuse to use the word. Solo insists on calling them ‘partners,’ even when the softness in his eyes is almost unbearable and it’s clear that the word is longing to fall from his lips. Gaby doesn’t call them anything, just takes and takes and takes anything he’ll give her and lets it fill her up with the warmth she’s so long denied herself. And he, he pours it into her like he’s overflowing with it, because she knows by now that his cold marble smoothness is as much a dam as it is a mask, and it hurts him to keep everything behind it.

It’s three in the morning, and he’s warm and solid against her back, one arm loose over her waist and his deep, even breathing lulling her back to sleep. But she doesn’t want to sleep, not just yet. She’d rather remember this. So she matches her breathing to his, feels their chests moving in tandem, and places her hand over his to better feel the movement. Wraps her mind around the sensation of safety and pulls it over her like another blanket, warm and thick and protective.

She’d spent the better part of her life learning to be alone, teaching herself to rely on nothing and no one because trust and dependence would never be a part of her reality.

Some things, it’s nice to be wrong about.

 

2228.

"You're soaked!" Gaby exclaims when he squelches into the hotel room, hurriedly putting her evening book and drink aside. "What happened?"

"An unfortunate attempt on my life," he answers smoothly. His lips feel like ice, but that's never stopped him before. "You know, I've found that most people don't have the wherewithal to keep a good grip on a garrote when they're unexpectedly tipped into a river. Good information for you," he adds, "in case you ever find yourself in such a situation." His hair's fallen into his eyes again, and he shoves it back irritably.

Gaby's eyes are wide, but with anger rather than fear. "Are you hurt?" she demands. "Let me see your neck." She's out of the chair and inches in front of him before he even blinks. 

It's possible that he's still a bit cold after all.

"It's fine," he says, batting her hands away as they start to probe at the ring of bruises he can already feel blooming. "I can do it—"

"Yourself, I know. Illya," she calls over her shoulder. "Come out here, please. Solo's gotten himself garroted and dropped in a river."

There's a curse and a muffled thump, and then a pajama-clad Illya is stalking into the sitting room.

 _"Lightly_ garroted," Napoleon stresses. "Illya, stop, it's fine." But Illya doesn't stop, just keeps plowing forward, and then there's a hand on Napoleon's chin, tilting it up and to the side to expose the marks left by the thin twine.

Really, it could have been worse. It could have been wire.

"Breathing okay?" Illya asks. His voice is rough with sleep – he must have been out for some time. Not surprising, given that he’s to be up at two for surveillance and has a healthy love for a solid six hours. 

"Fine," Napoleon answers shortly.

"Swallowing?" 

"Also fine."

Illya tilts his head the other way. 

"Toes?" he asks.

"Excuse me?"

"It's February," Illya says bluntly, "and you fell in river almost three miles away. Can you still feel toes?"

Napoleon does a quick check despite himself, and feels them all moving sluggishly in their wet cocoons. God, these socks are _ruined._ And they're _cashmere._ Sometimes his life is downright tragic.

"All present and accounted for," he reports, and steps backwards, freeing himself from Illya's touch. "Now, if you'll excuse me—"

"No."

He sighs. "Will I ever be allowed to finish a sentence with you two?"

"No." That one comes from Gaby, and he shoots her a flat look. She folds her arms and stares back, unapologetic. 

"I'm dripping on the carpet," he says. "I want to go dry off. That's all." 

Gaby's expression softens minutely, then she turns to Illya. "Will you help him?" she asks. "It will be faster."

Yes, because what he _really_ needs is Illya Kuryakin, supposedly the finest agent the KGB's ever produced, stripping him naked and toweling him off like a child in the hotel bathroom.

"I can—" 

_"No,"_ they both say, together. 

"Fine," he snaps, and stalks into the bathroom, ripping at the collar of his shirt. The buttons don't yield. He tries again, feels how slow and clumsy his fingers are, and _growls._

"Let me," Illya says softly, appearing in front of him, and starts slipping the buttons out of their holes one by one. 

"Did Gaby buy you those pajamas?" Napoleon tosses out acerbically. 

"Yes," Illya answers, with no emotion whatsoever, and slips the sodden shirt from Solo's shoulders. "Arms up," he says then, and peels the undershirt off, too. "I trust you can handle trousers."

Napoleon doesn't even dignify that with a response, just wills his fingers to cooperate and manages without too much trouble. He shucks his underwear and socks, too, without even being asked. Hoorah. Illya drapes him in a towel once everything's off and starts rubbing vigorously, starting with his arms and working his way down. 

He presses the towel into Napoleon's hands when he's done. "Hair," he says, then slips out of the bathroom.

Drying his hair takes more effort than he'd like to admit, and his arms are feeling heavier by the second. Still, he manages. 

He always does.

Illya comes back with an armful of clothing, and steadies Napoleon wordlessly as he steps into the underwear and flannel pants, and helps him pull the sweater over his head despite his rapidly growing exhaustion. 

He's gotten so good at ignoring the cold, he thinks, that he forgets what it does to him. Or maybe it's just the last of the fading adrenaline. 

As he leaves the bathroom, he's seized by a wave of...not quite dizziness, but strong disorientation, and he stumbles. Just one step, but it's enough for Illya to reach out and steady him with a hand on his arm.

He's so tired. He shouldn't be – he's had plenty worse before, and there's still work to be done, but all he wants to do is sleep. He's not shivering anymore, not like he was when he first pulled himself back up onto the dock, his assailant still flailing in the deep, cold water. He's no longer shaking so hard he can barely walk – and that had taken some time to wear off – but his skin is still clammy where it touches the fabric of his clothes. He feels damp, even though he knows he isn't, and he hates that what he wants more than anything is to huddle under a pile of blankets until he's warm again. 

The damned bruising on his neck isn't helping either.

Gaby's not in the sitting room anymore, but he only has to wonder about that for a second. She's in the bedroom, consolidating the two beds into one. The pillows and blankets from Napoleon's bed have been added to the one that Illya and Gaby have been sharing, and his knees almost go weak with relief. They break off into pairs, sometimes, based on moods and needs and who’s currently irritated with whom, and while he won’t intrude on their time together, the tacit invitation is more than welcome. He hadn’t been looking forward to trying to warm the bed himself. Then Illya's steering him to their bed, the one with four pillows and two blankets, and Gaby's pulling back the sheets so he can slide into the middle. They pull the blankets up around him, and the room rotates sideways as his head sinks down into the pillows. 

It's more than he deserves, and once he would have berated himself for letting them spoil him. He doesn't need to be coddled, doesn't need their help, but it’s still nice to be treated like he matters. Like they care. He knows they do, but old beliefs take time to unlearn. 

“Aren’t you going to go back to sleep?” he asks Illya. Two o’clock isn’t getting any further away, after all.

“Yes,” Illya says, “but not just yet.” 

“Go ahead,” says sideways Gaby, and gives sideways Illya a little push towards the bed. “I can take care of it.”

“Take care of what?” Napoleon wants to know, but she’s already gone, and Illya is climbing into the bed with him. Normally Illya’s on the other side, with or without Gaby somewhere in the mix, but now he's sliding in and pulling Napoleon up against his chest, wrapping his arms around him to hold him close, and he _knows_ Illya’s hands are cold, but he’s cold enough that they feel warm against his back, even through the sweater. He can’t help but relax, going loose in Illya’s arms and letting himself be drawn closer in until his chin is resting against Illya’s shoulder and he’s anchored by a hand at the small of his back and one at the back of his head. Illya’s hands might be cold, but the rest of him is warm and welcoming, generous and malleable as Napoleon tucks himself as close as he can and drinks in the heat.

“Are you all right?” Illya murmurs into his ear, and this time it’s not about his neck or his toes or any of that. It’s about adrenaline and fear and the aftermath of violence, the cold that comes from within and makes that from without so much harder to fight. And god damn it, it still takes him aback, such a simple thing as sympathy so much more impossibly intimate than the warmth wrapped around him.

“I think I’m hypothermic,” he says, the words trapped against the fabric of Illya’s pajama shirt.

“Yes,” Illya says simply, and Napoleon thinks he understands. “We will warm you up, don’t worry.”

“We?” Napoleon asks, because hadn’t Gaby gone off to do….something? It doesn’t really matter, though, because he’s so cold and so tired and Illya’s holding him so close, and the relief of being cared for is one hell of a guilty pleasure but a pleasure nonetheless.

“We,” Illya affirms, and pets his hair, just a bit. 

He wakes up enough to notice Gaby climbing into the bed minutes or hours later, and stays awake just long enough to feel the weight of her shifting and settling in the bed and the warmth of her pressing up against his back. He sighs, content, and goes back to sleep.

 

0938.

Illya’s been up for well over three hours already, and has breakfast, two newspapers, and a wide array of newly cleaned weapons and gear to show for it. 

Gaby has been up for two, and got cold fingers but a fantastic view of the sunrise from the balcony.

Solo’s been up for a scant handful of minutes, and his eyes aren’t all the way open yet. 

“Good morning,” Illya says as he trudges into view, and gets a grunt in response.

“Coffee?” It won’t win any prizes for the most loquacious utterance of the morning, but at least it’s comprehensible. And not cursing. 

“On the table. Blue mug.” 

Solo drops into a chair with a groan and pillows his head in his arms on the table. 

“Didn’t you sleep well?” Illya asks. Solo’s by no means a morning person, but he’s normally better at hiding it. They have no mission today, but still. Appearances, and all that. 

“Hah,” Solo says into his arms. When Illya doesn’t respond, he lifts his head and squints at him. To be fair, he really does seem exhausted. “Wait, are you honestly asking?”

Illya just looks at him, bewildered. “So you didn’t sleep well,” he concludes after a beat, just to be sure.

Solo squints a little harder, like he can’t figure out if this is a joke or not. “Did _you?”_

“Yes, very well.” Solo scowls, and drops his head again.

“I’m taking the middle next time,” he says, muffled. “It’s like sleeping next to a dog fight. A dog fight between _octopuses._ Someone needs to keep you two apart.”

He starts sleeping between them after that, and apparently this makes for a much more restful night.

 

0131.

Gaby wakes up with a cold back. Well, colder than expected, anyway. Solo runs warm, and she never appreciates it more than when they’re sleeping – he and Illya make the bed positively _luxurious_ with all that body heat – or misses it more than when she wakes up in the middle of the night without it. Illya’s still sleeping soundly, but there’s a space between them. Solo can’t have left long ago, then, or Illya would be wrapped around her like a koala bear. 

And it’s not that she _can’t_ sleep without him, but she frankly doesn’t want to. A bed with just two people has started to feel empty.

It doesn’t take long to track him down. Other than the bathroom, their suite only has one other room, and it’s there that she finds him, stretched out on the couch with a newspaper lying forgotten on his lap and a mug held between both hands as he stares into space.

“Couldn’t sleep?” she asks softly. Solo startles just a little, blinking himself back to the room. 

“No,” he admits. He matches her tone - soft words for soft light, for the soft hours when secrets are shared. “I’ve been— I’ve had a lot on my mind.” 

“The mission?”

“Among other things.” He looks so sad, sometimes. Forlorn. Resigned. It’s so painfully human, these expressions on that face, worn out from smiling and beguiling until he doesn’t even try to pretend.

“Can I sit?”

“Of course.” He folds up the newspaper one-handed and tosses it onto the nearby table, swings his legs off the cushions so there’s room beside him. She wouldn’t do this during the day, no matter how much she cares for him – there are roles they’re expected to play, and standards they hold themselves to, lines they’re not willing to blur – but in the golden light of a reading lamp in the earliest of morning, it’s natural to press herself up against his side and let his arm circle his shoulders. 

“What are you drinking?” she asks of the mug that has been held carefully still during all of this.

“Flannel Pajama,” he says. 

“That’s a drink?”

“The best drink,” he answers, “for nights like this. Have a sip.”

It’s chocolate and butterscotch, warm and rich and golden in her mouth, ceramic hot and smooth against her fingertips. “Mmmmm,” she agrees, and snuggles in closer. 

They trade the mug back and forth until it’s empty, hands growing slower and heavier with the intoxicating combination of comfort and alcohol, however little of the latter there is. She doesn’t mean to fall asleep there and leave Illya alone, but sleep comes for her anyway.

At least she’s warm.

 

0258.

It's Illya's restlessness that finally drags him out of his own sleep. Odd, because Illya sleeps with a depth and heaviness that speaks of long training and difficult lessons. 

When he and Gaby aren't unconsciously fighting over who gets to be the big spoon, anyway.

Still, he's awake and it's fucking _early._ "What's wrong?" he mutters, and Illya goes still. 

"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"Well, you did. What is it?"

Illya shifts again. "It's nothing. Just—"

"Is it your back?" Illya has an unexpected proclivity for back-cracking, a habit that Napoleon had found oddly endearing when it finally came to light. A long day usually sees Illya twisting sharply at the end of it, releasing the tension in his spine with a rapid-fire series of cracks. Napoleon's not quite as bad, but they're old for their age, all three of them: their joints ache in the cold, souvenirs of injuries and strain. So he knows how hard it can be to sleep with that insistent press of discomfort, so easily relieved but so hard to reach. 

Illya’s silence is answer enough.

He sighs. "Let me," he says, face still in the pillow. Illya starts to protest, naturally, but Napoleon stops him with a grumble. " _Let me,_ so I can _sleep."_

Illya subsides with a whispered thanks.

Still hardly more than half awake, Napoleon drags himself up onto his knees as Illya rolls over onto his stomach and rests his forehead in the hollow of his folded arms. "Where is it?" Napoleon asks. "Upper or lower?"

"Shoulder blades," Illya mumbles, and Napoleon positions his hands accordingly. A bit of hair flops into his eyes as he leans over, and he huffs it back. 

"Breathe in," he orders, feeling Illya's rib cage expanding beneath his hands. "Breathe out." As the exhale nears its apex, he pushes down with a short, sharp motion and is rewarded with a quiet _click_ from Illya's spine and a deep sigh of relief from Illya himself. 

"Any more?"

"No," Illya mumbles, sounding nearly asleep already. "Thank you, Napoleon."

"Don't mention it," Napoleon says, and drops back down next to him. Ah, sweet horizontality. At his back, Illya's breathing deepens and slows. At his front, Gaby remains determinedly unconscious, limbs flung out and soft snores muffled in her pillow. 

For a moment he considers putting an arm out and pulling her close, or turning to Illya and tucking against him, but he falls asleep before he can decide.

 

0712.

Solo, if allowed, will sleep far more than any reasonable human should. That’s not to say that he hasn’t weathered his fair share of sleepless nights – or sleepless weeks, as they have unfortunately come close to more than once – or that he isn’t an effective agent when given less sleep than desirable, but given the opportunity he will sleep like the dead for ten or twelve hours at a stretch. His current record (at least by Illya’s count) is sixteen, but he wasn’t entirely well at the time. A mission had gone badly wrong, and just as Gaby suffers stress in wakefulness, so does Solo suffer it in exhaustion.

Perhaps it is something in his head that makes it so, some illness or imbalance that acts opposite to Illya’s own, but that is mere speculation. Solo is a good partner, and there’s no reason for him to accommodate Gaby’s insomnia but begrudge Solo his somnolence. 

So it’s odd when he appears just after seven in the morning, still in pajamas and a bathrobe but otherwise looking far more alert than he normally would at this time on a day off. 

“Did you sleep okay?” is Illya’s first question. 

“Fine, thanks,” Solo says absently, already exploring the cupboards in search of breakfast. “Gaby’s still out though – I don’t think she fell asleep until a few hours ago, so leave her be.”

“No reason to wake her,” Illya agrees. “No reason any of us needs to be up, really.”

Solo shoots him a look at that, a little bit amused and a little bit wry. “I _am_ perfectly capable of functioning in the morning, Peril. I just prefer not to when I don’t need to.”

“In KGB, we were up before sunrise every day.” And honestly, it’s not that he’s _trying_ to start an argument, it’s just so _easy._ But instead of rising to the barb, Solo just hums and goes back to his search. Before long, there are eggs frying on the stove and a kettle of water heating for tea.

“The CIA never much liked me,” Solo says as he brings his plate and cup over to the table, both steaming gently. “I’m sure that you went through sleep deprivation training, too, but mine occurred strictly off the books. Along with most of my other, ah, conditioning.”

Illya has no idea what that means, but at the same time he knows precisely what’s being implied and he doesn’t care for it at all. “You know we are not like that,” he says carefully. Does Solo, on some level, expect the same sort of torment and abuse from them? He doesn’t act like it, but that doesn’t really mean anything.

Solo scoffs around a mouthful of eggs. “Of course you’re not,” he says after swallowing. “It’s just an old habit.” Illya suspects it’s much more than that, but they’ve only been working together for a year. They may have started sharing a bed, but that doesn’t mean they share everything; they each still have their secrets, and none of them seem to be in any hurry to pry them out into the open. They are spies, after all. Deduction and inference are often more important than outright admissions. 

For example: Solo sleeps like he might not get another chance, and that is not an unfounded fear.

“So. Plans for today?”

“We don’t have to work if you don’t want to,” Illya says. “If you want to rest—”

“I’m fine, Peril.” Solo’s eyes are warm again, his expression fond. “And besides, I wasn’t talking about _work.”_

 

0417.

It’s just her and Illya in bed tonight. This morning. There’s the first faint hint of light in the sky outside, but it’s nowhere near day yet. Solo’s off God knows where (well, Waverly knows where, but isn’t that just about the same?), pulled out for some mission that was “better suited to an individual with very particular skills.” If Waverly knows about the three of them, he doesn’t seem to care. And if he doesn’t know, they’re not going to do anything to help him along, so there’s no point kicking up a fuss about it.

And Gaby’s not so sentimental and dependent that she _misses_ them if one or both is gone for a couple of days, and it’s nice to get some one-on-one time every now and again, but the dynamic is slightly different. With Solo, Illya is fondly exasperated. With her, he is almost reverently gentle in the dark, and as much as she hates that kind of behavior during the day, well. The night is different. It’s still novel to be treated like something valuable, and Illya never allows her to doubt her value.

For instance, right now she has her cold, cold feet up against his legs and he doesn’t even wake up. Wonderful. Solo’s response to her icy toes is to buy her socks and slippers, which she heartily enjoys, but bare feet against silk sheets? She’s not about to pass up _that_ delectable sensation, even if it is a bit chilly. If she were alone, though, she’d definitely be reconsidering the socks. It’s hard for her to sleep when she’s cold – harder, that is – and she and Illya must have drifted apart enough for the cool outside air to find its way to her skin.

She could also get up and close the window, but then she wouldn’t be able hear the waves or smell the salt. 

So it’s quite a good thing that she has a large Russian furnace in her bed, who won’t complain when she puts her feet against his shins and slips her hands underneath his pajama shirt to press against his chest. He doesn’t even wake up at this second intrusion, just lets out a long, easy breath and shifts his arm so his hand covers hers through the fabric. 

Maybe he’s not asleep, after all.

But still, he doesn’t complain. She smiles against the back of his neck and lets the rhythm of the ocean lull her back to sleep until the sun has finished rising.

 

0640.

Aside from saving the world multiple times and the fact that they’re all more or less desperately in love with each other, Solo’s partners are actually horrible, horrible people. 

How does he know this?

Because they _let him sleep on the couch._

They let him sleep on the couch _all night long_ instead of doing the decent thing and waking him up so he could finish out the night in a real bed instead of waking up at 6:30 in the damn morning feeling like an octogenarian. He sounds like one, too, when he tries to sit up and can only groan. It’s like every single muscle in his back has seized up, and it’s decidedly uncomfortable. He’s debating the pros and cons of calling for help (pros: getting off this godforsaken piece of furniture, cons: hearing about this until he _dies_ ) when he hears Illya approaching.

“Good morning, Peril,” he says. “I’m crippled, and also, I hate you.”

“Hate the couch,” Illya suggests blandly. “Or yourself, since you decided to sleep there.”

“First of all,” Solo starts, but makes the mistake of shifting forward and can’t talk for a little bit because of all the _righteous indignation_ squeezing around his ribs. lllya takes the opportunity to make his escape, confirming his guilt. The innocent never run. 

“Gaby,” he tries next, when she shuffles into range. “Help.” 

Gaby’s marginally less horrible, because she comes around to take his outstretched hands and pull him up. She rolls her eyes, but still. _She_ didn’t flee the scene of the crime. “Were you here all night?”

“Guess,” he mutters. “I thought we had a rule.” 

“The rule is for _if we see you_ , which apparently we did not since we went to bed before you did last night.”

“That’s a flimsy excuse.”

“Stop falling asleep on couches, then,” Gaby snaps, but drops a kiss on his forehead anyway. “Now come on – we have a meeting in an hour.”

 

0002.

His night vision is quite good, but he feels more than sees Gaby stiffen suddenly on Solo’s other side, and he knows she is awake. She never yells, never cries out, never thrashes her way awake. Whether she was trained by others or by herself, Illya still doesn’t know, but her nightmares are utterly silent. 

“What was it?” he breathes, and she startles, just a little, at the words.

“Doesn’t matter,” she whispers back. “It’s over now.”

“Is it that easy?” Even for him it’s not, and he’s been trying for most of his life. “Sometimes… Sometimes, it is better to talk. So we control thoughts, and not the other way.” 

“I don’t want to talk,” she says, stubborn even though her breathing is still too fast. Terror is not so easily dismissed. “I just—” Between them, Solo stirs, mumbling something into his pillow and rolling onto his side, further away from Illya. 

“It’s okay,” Illya says once Solo has gone quiet and still again. “But if you want…” _Anything,_ he could have said, _anything at all,_ and it would be true. Whatever she wants, whatever she needs, he will do his best to give her. 

“All right,” she says, grimly, like whatever is coming is best faced quickly. Then she’s slithering out from under the covers and climbing over Solo – who mutters something about mint and pulls the abandoned sheets closer around himself – to slip into the space between him and Illya. She’s shaking, just a little, but a little is all it takes sometimes. 

“It’s okay,” he says again, whispered into her hair. She presses close to him, and when he carefully puts his arms around her, she doesn’t protest. “You know you can talk to me, yes?”

“I know. Talking won’t help, though. Not yet.”

“And this?” he breathes. “Does this help?” _Anything, everything, anything at all..._ If he were a religious man, it would be a prayer, whispered in the dark to an all-seeing god: _let me be enough._

“How could it not?”

And if it were Solo, it would be a joke.

And if it were him, it would be sarcastic.

But it’s Gaby, and there’s sincerity in her voice, sleep-rough though it is.

And so he thinks, _Maybe. Maybe I am._

 

2117\. 

It’s a rare evening that they’re all getting ready for bed at the same time. On missions they’re often on very different schedules according to their roles, and even off-mission they have different habits.

Illya is often the first to turn in, but he’s also the first one up in the morning so they can’t really tease him about it. They do anyway, but on principle they shouldn’t. He prefers to wind down from the day with a game of chess – against himself for the most part, but he’ll allow one of them to play him every now and again – or a book. If there’s black tea, he’ll brew himself a mug (strong, no milk or sugar) and not go to bed until it’s finished and the cup is washed and put away. Very occasionally he’ll allow a splash of liquor to find its way in, but he’s never the one pouring, and he’s very particular about what kind. Solo had finally managed to get him to try that butterscotch schnapps he’s so unexpectedly fond of, and Illya’s taste for it is something of a shameful secret. He’ll scoff if Solo is the one to offer it, but if Gaby appears with the bottle he’ll wordlessly hold out his mug, and neither of them will speak of it later. (Solo’s frustration with Illya’s refusal to enjoy it is more than enough reward.)

Solo has less of a ritual. As soon as he decides he’s done for the day, he is. The only thing he always does before going to bed is brush his teeth; sometimes he doesn’t even change into pajamas, especially if it’s going to be a short night on a mission. 

Sometimes Gaby envies him for how easily he sleeps, and how much. Illya has quietly voiced his own worries to her a couple of times, that Solo has a sickness of some kind that makes him sleep too long and too often, but Gaby doesn’t agree. It’s likely just part of who he is, and since it never interferes with missions, she tries not to let it bother her. It’s hard not be jealous, though, when it seems like he’s asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow and she’s left tossing and turning for hours before finally falling into a fitful doze, only to awake scant hours later and start the process all over again. If they could somehow merge their sleeping habits, they’d probably be the most functional people in the world. That isn’t possible, though, so they make do. Gaby lets Solo’s easy slumber and deep breathing lull her into sleep herself, and Solo never complains if Gaby’s the one to wake him in the morning. No matter how exhausted he is, if hers is the face he opens his eyes to, he’ll push himself up without a word. It’s a small thing, but she’s grateful for it all the same.

Gaby herself likes to be warm. Warm on the outside, so she puts on her pajamas first, and her slippers too if it’s cold. Warm on the inside, so she pours herself a drink after. Just one, and despite her size her tolerance more than allows it. Warm in the heart, so she watches her partners go through their own motions. Warm all over, so if she can, she lets them warm the bed before she gets in. If Solo’s there, he’ll take her spot until she’s ready so the pillow and sheets are all toasty for her, and then shift back to his spot in the middle. If it’s just Illya, he’ll let her snuggle up against him and leech the warmth out of him all night long. 

She still has trouble sleeping, sometimes, but like most things, it’s better when they’re all together.

 

0822\. 

There are fingers in his hair, gentle enough to be soothing, almost unnoticeable. Still, “Illya, if that’s you…”

Behind him, Gaby snickers, and he relaxes. “I thought we were never going to mention that incident again,” she reminds him.

“This is self-defense,” Solo protests sleepily. “Extenuating circumstances. And besides, I didn’t even mention it.” They’re both quiet for a little while, still but for the careful twirling of his curls around Gaby’s fingers. 

“Why don’t you leave it like this?” she asks. “It’s lovely, and it would save you time in the morning.”

“It makes me look like a child.”

“No it doesn’t.” They’ve had this discussion before, often enough that he’s fairly sure Gaby only brings it up as a joke anymore, but he’s comfortable and relaxed and he feels _safe_ with Gaby – safe with both of his partners, like he can’t remember feeling in decades – so the truth just kind of slips out.

“It’s how I wore it during the war,” he says softly, and Gaby’s fingers go still. “It wasn’t bad for me,” he goes on, “not like it was for other people, since I joined so late. But I was young and stupid, and I did things I’m not proud of. I haven’t ‘left it like this’ since I was in prison.”

Gaby takes a breath, as if to speak, and truth is one thing but pity is another game entirely. 

“More importantly,” he says quickly, cutting her off, “apparently you and Illya can’t be trusted around it.” Gaby lets out the breath in a laugh and resumes playing with his hair. He’ll consider this a win.

“I’m not as bad as Illya,” Gaby argues.

“You’re exactly as bad,” Solo says primly. “You let him do it, you let him take the photographs, and then you hid them.”

“We needed to have _something_ on you, especially after the macaroni incident.”

He chuckles. “I’d almost forgotten about the macaroni incident.” 

Gaby smacks his shoulder. “Liar. You think about it every day, if not oftener.”

“‘Oftener’ isn’t a word.” 

She smacks him again. “Now I’ll never tell you where the pictures are.”

That’s fine by him, since he already knows for a fact that folded up under a panel in Illya’s chess set is a creased and wrinkled photograph of him asleep, his hair in dozens of tiny braids.

 

0550\. 

It’s really shouldn’t be a surprise, but—

“Oh god,” Gaby groans, somewhere off to his left. In this case, he will trust without verifying: opening his eyes seems like the worst sort of idea right now. “Did we—?”

“Yes,” Solo mutters. He sounds distinctly unhappy, and Illya allows himself a small feeling of savage satisfaction, but it doesn’t last long. “You alive, Peril?” It comes out as a croak.

Illya just makes a vague noise. He doesn’t trust himself to speak right now.

“Well, if anyone’s going to be sick, try not to do it on this lovely imitation Persian rug.” The words are confident, but Solo’s tone? Not so much. 

“Before I kill you,” Gaby says tightly, “tell me: what did we even drink last night?”

“Um,” Solo says, and there’s the sound of bottles rolling and clinking against each other. It makes his head pound. “Among other things… Pálinka?”

 _That_ rouses Illya to speech. “New rule,” he says, eyes still firmly closed. “We never drink that again.”

“Seconded,” Gaby agrees. “And I _am_ going to kill you later, Solo.”

“Passed,” confirms Solo. “To both.”

They spend the rest of the morning on the living room floor, trying to block out the Scandinavian summer sun that had so cruelly woken them. It doesn’t really work, but by the time it’s stopped streaming so directly through the windows, their hangovers are at least manageable. 

Still, it’s a good thing he’s fond of Solo, or he’d be helping Gaby break his neck later. 

It’s a good thing they’re all fond of each other, really. This probably wouldn’t work if they weren’t.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I tried to keep it as balanced as I could and give roughly equal attention to each character and relationship within the trio, but it was never going to be 100% perfect. 
> 
> InNovaFertAnimus, I hope you enjoyed this!! It was tons of fun to write, and I'm so glad you're an OT3 fan as well! 
> 
> Big thanks to Jessy for helping me come up with ideas for scenes, and for generally just being a great and supportive friend.
> 
> As always, please feel free to leave whatever feedback you’d like to!


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